


I Just Had To Hear Your Voice

by mydogwatson



Series: WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Fall, Pre-Slash, tea and HobNobs and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sits alone night after night in the silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Just Had To Hear Your Voice

**Author's Note:**

> Since I am unexpectedly traveling tomorrow, I decided to post Monday's story tonight.

Please don’t be mad at me,  
but I had to hear your voice.  
Though I know it wasn’t right,  
I just had to hear your voice.  
Goodnight.  
-Oleta Adams

 

John Watson sat alone in 221B, sipping carefully a cup of tea, as he listened to the very loud silence that surrounded him. He allowed a slight smirk to cross his face at the irony of the situation---a man who had spent so many nights begging for just a little peace and quiet had nothing but silence now. And it was slowly killing him.

For the past twenty-seven nights there had been nothing to do but sit here alone, listening to the quiet, and John was thoroughly tired of it. He would have paid money for an explosion in the kitchen. Or gunshots at the wall. A violin being tortured. A violin being played beautifully.

//I play the violin.//

He would have given every damn pound he had [not that it would amount to a great sum, but still…] to hear a quiet rendition of “Humoresque.”

Shouting. Slamming doors. Cursing at hateful brothers.

A deep voice explaining why the case was so simple and that they would all understand if they weren’t so massively stupid.

//Sometimes I go for days without speaking. Would that bother you?//

Yes, as it turned out, not hearing Sherlock talk for days on end---forever---bothered him a great deal.

Any noise would be welcomed.

Just some sounds to prove that he wasn’t alone in the universe anymore.

So now, on night twenty-seven, when his phone rang at 23:30, he almost welcomed the sound, despite the fact that there was no one at all in the world he wanted to talk to. He picked up the phone. A blocked number, which made him immediately suspect that the caller might be Mycroft but what the hell, he answered it anyway. It would be nice to swear at the pompous bastard. “Hello?”  
There was only silence on the other end of the call. Not a dead silence, not a void, but more as if whoever was there just chose not to speak.

John, known far and wide as a patient man, said “Hello” again. Then, when there was still no response, he said, “I’m going to hang up now.”

After another moment, he disconnected.

It was silent again.

The next night at 23:30 his phone rang again. A blocked number. John didn’t know why he instantly pressed the talk button, but he did. “Hello?”

There was no response and he hadn’t really been expecting one. Oddly, the silence on the phone seemed just so much less…silent than what surrounded him in the flat.

“You’re probably just a remarkably consistent drunk dialer, right? Maybe try staying sober tomorrow night? Just for your liver’s sake, if nothing else. And I might actually be sleeping, of course.” Which was a lie, because he rarely slept.

“All right, then. Hanging up now.”

John felt ridiculous the next night as he made a cup of tea and even took a couple of chocolate HobNobs with him when he settled onto the sofa and picked up his phone.

And right on time the phone rang.

“I really hope you’re not actually drunk dialing,” John said easily. “Otherwise your brain cells are in danger. But I expect you’re just an ordinary person, so probably don’t have much in the way of brainpower anyway. Oh, don’t be offended by that. Most people are idiots.” He sipped the tea. “If you were here, I’d offer you a chocolate HobNob. And some tea. Noted for my tea-making skills, actually. At least according to some people. Well, one person.” John took a breath. “One person.”

For the first time John wasn’t the one who ended the call.

The following night John waited until 01:00 before giving up and going to bed. He refused to be disappointed. At the same time, he did hope that nothing bad had happened to his mysterious caller. Also, he was given to wonder how what had already been complete silence could now feel even more silent.

It was not until three nights later, at precisely 23:30, that his phone rang again. John picked it up and started talking immediately. “Well, hello. I’d given up on you. Thought maybe you’d gotten bored with me and moved on. Or maybe died. That’s what people do, of course. They die without warning.”

He paused and let the silence be a reply of sorts.

“I have decided that you are not threatening to me. Although, truthfully, I’m not sure that anything could threaten me now. What could anyone do? Kill me?” He let his own silence make the point about how absurd that would be as a threat.

He was stretched out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, as always wondering what about the various splotches there had so fascinated Sherlock.

“Actually, I’ve decided that you’re probably just another lonely person. Like me. So we can keep one another company for a while. That would be good.”

John shut up. They sat in companionable silence until John actually fell asleep.

The next evening John told his caller the story of how he walked into a lab at St. Barts and met Sherlock Holmes. And on the three nights after that he talked about the adventures they’d had and the crimes they had solved. He related everything he could about his friend, Sherlock Holmes. He told the silent caller things no one else knew, about the quiet moments that had been just two friends living together in chaotic contentment.

John was holding a glass of whiskey in his hand when the call came on the fourth night. With no preamble, in a low monotone, he told the story of what had happened on that last and dreadful day. Back at St. Barts, ironically. Where it started and where it ended. By the time he’d finished, his voice was clogged with unshed tears.

Could there be a pause in silence? It felt as if there were.

There was still no response, of course.

But then there was something. It was only the whisper of a breath across the distance. That was all. Just a breath.

“Goodbye,” John said for the first time in all the calls. But the call had already ended. He swallowed the whiskey in one gulp.

There were no more calls.

fini


End file.
